I lift my gaze beyond the channel,
where Kessingland lingers in memory,
while Holland’s fog curls around Zandvoort—
windswept dunes, lager tins, crisps,
the salt and bite of air carving my cheeks raw.
The flat sits empty, waiting for laughter to spill in,
for voices to rise, thick with stories.
But the nightshift is stirring—
from the reeds, a figure waddles into view.
We bow in greeting.
A moment’s pause—then the inevitable.
Why is it always this way?
The same dull dance,
the casual gaslighting into trysts
by uninvited hands, by half-lit strangers.
Do I wear some neon sign?
Some flickering plea, selling me
as an object of desire?
I seek a time, a place, and send them off,
knowing I will not follow.
They must know, must suspect—
this is not who I am, not what I do.
I wish I was home.
Past the Strait of Dover, but where is home?
This will happen again, all too soon,
wherever I go—wherever I pretend to belong.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 19th, 2025 01:50
- Comment from author about the poem: just trying out a bit of @David Wakeling here... not very easy to pull off, mind.🕊️🙏🏻
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments8
I sense the story of a lady of the night,a lost soul going through the motions yet wishing they were elsewhere, wanting somewhere to belong and call home, but not knowing where home is, apologies if i am wrong, enjoyed the read
Thanks for bring the first PL. That is so close and most possibly a core emotion or thought of such persons. Not altogether wrong since you went straight to the heart of the matter and that isn't far from the kernel. 🙏🏻🕊️
This poem carries with it a sense of an existential voyage beyond the shores of comfort and in that foreign land the discomfort and the questioning of where home is. A great metaphor for a life's journey leaving a feeling of uncertainty, a wistful sense of longing for the unfound and a general sense of being lost on foreign shores. Maybe I project too much. Very nice my friend
Not too much at all Soren... It would appear that the 'embedded' clues have been followed faithfully. Being foreign sure is a major element in this one. Many thanks🙏🏻🕊️
Hey this poem is better than anything I could write,Very powerful images here with minimal effort.I see a party where the usual guests arrive and immediately play the usual games and irritate the host. I enjoyed reading
Hahaha... such are parties... you wonder why you even bother hosting one. LOL Thanks heaps mate🕊️🙏🏻
Even Steven never calls it even.... lol
Hahaha!
🤫😇
Superb work.
Thanks Thomas. Much appreciated 🙏🏻🕊️
At least you realize you're pretending to belong. My mind is perpetually carving out niches for me where I've never belonged nor can, the inhabitants of wherever looking askance at me. This being a stranger on earth is my normal yet I keep thinking I belong. Gorgeously rendered with exquisite imagery and a haunting poignancy, its ability to resonate swallowing me whole. Thank you very much for sharing.
I’m only too glad at this genuine reception. Belonging appears to be a construct dismembered by expectation, both internal and otherwise externally. Much politics in varying scales and degrees of manifestation. Thank you so much 🙏🏻🕊
Home is where the heart is arqios.
Andy
Indeed it is Andy 🙏🏻🕊️
A really powerful piece. Works on so many levels. Nicely done.
Nice, a most appreciated confirmation. You are always appreciated, Tom 🕊️🙏🏻
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